


Arrows of Desire

by diamondlife (elyndys)



Category: The Libertines
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-07-28 20:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndys/pseuds/diamondlife
Summary: Carl, trapped and frustrated by a life he was born into, meets Peter, free and unlike anyone he's ever met before, who just might hold the keys to his gilded cage.





	1. Chapter 1

“Saw you on the Daily Mail website the other day,” says Lucie. There’s judgement in her voice which, Carl has to admit, is almost certainly justified.

“The Daily Mail? Fucking hell, not that long ago I would’ve at least made the Mirror,” he grumbles anyway. “I must be getting old.”

“Yes,” Lucie agrees, rather forcefully. “Time to start acting your fucking age.”

Carl snorts. “And what? Shrivel up and consign myself to the grave already? If I don’t get to enjoy my life what’s the point? I’d go mad just rattling around the estate for the rest of my days.”

“You could get a job,” suggests Lucie stonily.

“Oh, a job, like you? How’s that script going at the moment? Or the art collection? Or have you moved onto a new project now?” Carl spits, but he instantly regrets it. Lucie doesn’t deserve that and he knows it, but it’s too easy to lash out instead of turning his attention inwards.

“I’m doing what I can,” Lucie responds hotly. “Even if all I have is the funds, at least I’m trying to put them to good use.”

“I know, I know,” Carl mumbles. “I’m sorry, alright? But what the fuck sort of job am I meant to do? Who’s going to employ _me_?”

He feels an odd sort of satisfaction when Lucie just sighs, obviously just as stumped by his question as Carl is. “You could do lots of things, you’re clever enough. But you won’t know unless you actually try and look, will you?” 

Carl just rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t really want to continue this weary argument yet again. “Anyway, I’d better go. Got to get ready.”

“What for now?” she asks, exasperation re-ignited.

“NME awards,” he says, feeling smug despite everything.

“Come on Carl, you’re definitely too old for that sort of stuff now. You’ll just end up making a fool of yourself for the Daily Mail again,” Lucie warns. 

“You’re just jealous because you never get invited,” Carl says snippily.

“ _You_ don’t get invited!” she exclaims. “You just show up and give everyone a good laugh while they get pissed on your tab. They’re just using you, and laughing behind your back!”

“I don’t care,” he snaps childishly. “I’m having a good time, and if I’m helping other people to have a good time too, that’s as good a use of my money as any, isn’t it?” He hangs up the phone before he can hear her response. 

He’s fucking sick of it. People telling him what to do and how to act all his fucking life, and it’s just getting louder and louder as he gets older. It’s useful in a way, he supposes, because he takes his cue and just does exactly the opposite of whatever’s suggested to him, and if it’s a direct instruction, so much the better. He doesn’t take his position for granted, he knows how privileged he is, but if he’s fortunate enough to be able to take the scenic route through life, why shouldn’t he? He’s not hurting anyone, and it’s none of anyone else’s fucking business what he does with his money. He doesn’t have a family to support, and nor does he intend to make that part of his life plan - he’s got loads of siblings who can take care of the dynastic duties, and even if he didn’t, he’s not going to get involved in some sham marriage with some sham woman just to secure the lineage. Who gives a fuck. He wouldn’t necessarily wish this life on an heir, anyway. Just leave it all to the National Trust and have done with it. Best for everyone.

What would probably be best for everyone, he reflects, would actually be Carl’s convenient early death. Get him out of the way, stop showing up the family and dragging their name through the mud, whilst also making sure he won’t be the last of the line left, and stopping him squandering any more of the family funds. 

At the times when he’s seriously contemplated just flinging himself from the roof of the east wing, that thought’s about the only thing that’s stopped him. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He wonders just how long he can keep living out of sheer spite, but he thinks he can make it a little longer yet. 

Long enough to enjoy a few more awards ceremonies, red carpets and parties, anyway. The NME awards is one of his favourites - the crowd there are always a lot of fun, and music is something he can actually say he genuinely has a modicum of interest in. And there’s always some wide-eyed young lad in a leather jacket and skinny jeans who’s happy to suck his dick in return for the promise of some money to produce an album. Carl’s as good as his word - he always makes sure they get their reward, but he doesn’t know how many of the proposed records actually come to fruition. Carl probably wouldn’t even know if they went platinum - he doesn’t really remember one cute earnest musician type from another, they all look the same to him these days.

Another way in which he’s getting old, he supposes, but whatever. They get on their knees in the gents’ easy enough still. When they start turning from him with pitying looks, that’s when he’ll know it’s time to pack it in and take that leap off the roof. 

He casts an eye over the gathering, sees if he can spot anyone looking, curious or hopeful or even something more shameless. If he’s reduced to only featuring in the pages of the Daily Mail these days, he supposes a lot of these shiny young things probably don’t know who he is, but that’s never really posed a problem for him before. He doesn’t care if people know him or not, not really, and the looks on their faces when he introduces himself are worth it. That’s all it takes, with some of them. A well-cut suit, and a title - still impressive enough to some folk, even in the 21st century. He’s never pretended to be anything he’s not. He’s never had to, and he suspects he wouldn’t know how to start. 

There’s not much catching his eye tonight, and he feels a prick of mild panic, that maybe this really _is_ it, and he suddenly has become old and past it and grown out of this scene, completely against his will. Or maybe the scene has suddenly and dramatically moved on without him, and he’s left stranded, a relic, irrelevant, not a part of it anymore but with nowhere else to go. 

Shit, he thinks to himself, blinking into his champagne glass. He might be old, but this is no time for a midlife crisis. 

When he puts his glass down again, empty, he notices someone beside him. Maybe the guy was there all the time, while Carl was scouting and contemplating his existence. But Carl turns to him now, aware of his gaze, unwavering as it meets Carl’s. 

Carl blinks again, momentarily stopped in his tracks by this guy’s appearance, so startling in comparison to the mild, uninspiring throng he’s seen so far tonight. He’s wearing a brown suit that seems to fit and not fit at the same time, clunky rings on all the fingers of his left hand (none on his right), and a trilby with a jay feather in the ribbon. Carl is staring, but the guy is staring right back.

“Fuck me, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and Carl tries, for once in his life, to retain aristocratic poise.

“Thank you,” he says smoothly, putting out his hand. “I'm Carl.” 

The guy doesn’t falter or break his stride, just takes Carl’s hand firmly. “Peter,” he says, and brings Carl’s hand to his lips for a kiss.

Carl feels like he’s being assessed - is this Peter trying to embarrass him, or see if he’ll blink first? If he thinks Carl’s going to back away and capitulate, he’s very much mistaken. But Peter doesn’t seem disappointed or frustrated by Carl’s continued even countenance - he smiles, and Carl gets the feeling he’s passed a test, rather than failed. 

Carl smiles back, satisfied. He’s used to attention, admiration, even flattery, but this boldness is rare. He likes Peter’s spirit already. 

“Are you a musician?” he asks. He’s curious about where this might be heading, but he’s mainly curious about Peter.

Peter shrugs. He hasn’t let go of Carl’s hand. Carl is in no rush to take it back. “I suppose,” he says. “Are you a record company executive?” 

“No,” says Carl. He wonders if Peter will be disappointed by his answer - but then, he only gave the vaguest assertion of his musicianhood, so he can’t be that intent on securing a record deal or something. 

“No, of course not,” Peter says, as if he’s speaking to himself, before he addresses Carl again. “I don’t care what you are. I saw you and I had to come over and charm you. I had to take my chance. I could see ‘em all looking. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity.”

Carl feels like he should deflect, say something like, _’Oh, and how are you going to charm me?’_ , but he has no wish to belittle Peter, or deny that he’s already pretty charmed. There’s no point pretending he’s not already perfectly willing to have sex with him - he definitely has no intention of leaving here without getting off with _someone_ , and Peter not only seems extremely willing, but he holds much more fascination than the usual anonymous panting youths. 

Instead he says, “And what are you going to do, once you’ve charmed me?” 

Peter makes a gesture, a little tilt of his head, that suggests to Carl’s willing mind that the possibilities could be endless, boundless, limited only by an imagination without horizon. He leans closer, big dark eyes still fixed on Carl’s.

“I’ve been looking for a muse,” he murmurs, and Carl is suddenly aware of his own heartbeat, blood pulsing warm in his veins as Peter continues, “And I think I might’ve found him.”

Oh, it’s nonsense, complete bullshit of the highest order, but it’s such beautiful bullshit that Carl is completely pulled under, completely and instantly convinced by Peter’s own conviction. It’s a powerful spell, cast with these romantic words and limpid eyes staring into his own, as if it’s Peter who’s the one entranced, captivated simply by gazing upon Carl’s face, just like Carl is by Peter's words. 

Carl doesn’t care if he’s falling for a shameless appeal to his ego. He’s never met anyone who put this much effort into sounding like he genuinely _means_ what he has to say. Maybe Peter says these things to someone new every day. Maybe he means it every day. But today he’s saying it to Carl, and Carl doesn’t really care if it’s a game, because games are fun to play, and playing is how he lives his life. What’s the worst that can happen? This guy wants money? Everyone wants money, and Carl’s given plenty to people who haven’t shown any signs of deserving it as much as Peter. 

And on the other hand - what if Peter means every word he's said? Would that be terrifying, or wonderful? Carl doesn’t know yet, but he wants to find out. 

“And what does a muse do?” he asks. He already knows that whatever the answer, he’ll want to do it.

“Inspire me,” Peter murmurs, his fingertips skating over the back of Carl’s still-clasped hand. “Create with me. Dream with me. Live inside my head, and let me into yours.”

Carl, overcome, suddenly feels like the world's biggest fraud. He's never inspired anyone, never created anything. Never had a dream and certainly never got close enough to anyone to let them inside his mind. But he feels, suddenly and with a strength that surprises him, that he wants to see inside Peter's.

He's seized with the realisation that he doesn't want Peter to get away from him either, doesn't want Peter to leave in disdain when he sees through the cool façade and realises that's all it is, there's no substance underneath, no real Carl at all. For the first time that Carl can recall in a long time, he genuinely wants to impress someone with more than just his money, his name, his bearing. He wants to live up to the idea that Peter has conjured of him in his mind, doesn’t want Peter to feel like he’s wasted his pretty words on a vapid party boy the wrong side of 30.

That is, if Peter is for real. And if he’s not, if it’s all a con, well. Carl can’t be disappointed, can he? It’s no more than he came here expecting, and no more than he deserves. 

Carl decides he wants to know which it is, real or pretend, and he wants to find out as soon as he can. Either way, he’s going to have sex with Peter, because Peter clearly wants him, and Carl likes to be wanted, probably more than anything. But Carl doesn’t feel like he’ll find anything out in a claustrophobic toilet cubicle at this party, with wasted people pissing and blundering around and bringing him back down to earth. For once, Carl actually doesn’t want to be surrounded by all that. He’s glimpsed something in Peter and he needs to know if it still shows up in the light, won’t break and disappear like a spiderweb if he tries to touch it. 

He tightens his fingers around Peter’s where his hand still lies in his grasp. 

“Will you come away with me?” he asks, and he feels his mouth is unexpectedly dry, his cheeks unexpectedly warm. 

“Oh, yes,” breathes Peter immediately, his eyes alight, and Carl feels a spark in his chest, unfamiliar, thrilling, _fucking stupid_ , but he’s going to let it take him over.


	2. Chapter 2

Carl picks up his phone with his free hand, and calls his driver. He hopes he hasn't fucked off to make better use of his time than waiting around for Carl - it's much, much earlier than his services are usually required, but to Carl's relief, he answers, and confirms he can be there in dutiful time. 

Carl rises, and Peter does too, finally relinquishing Carl's hand as they walk side by side to the door. There are probably photographers taking pictures, but he's not shirtless or entertainingly drunk, so they probably won't feature in any tabloids tomorrow morning. The family will be proud of his restraint, he thinks sourly. More's the pity. He almost feels like grabbing Peter and snogging him right there for them all to see, but he doesn't feel like letting the paps make money off this thing, this special thing that he has yet to fathom. 

“Is that a fucking Phantom?” Peter says as Carl’s car stops in front of them.

“Yes,” Carl says, letting Peter slide into the back seat before him. “I felt like being ostentatious today,” he says dryly. At these kinds of events, he knows it’s the image of him that everyone wants to see, and he’s happy to provide it.

Peter chuckles. “Prefer the classic models myself, but this’ll do,” he says. 

He still hasn’t asked Carl who he is, that he’s being chauffered around in a Rolls Royce, and Carl is certain from his earlier question he doesn’t already know, but he also clearly doesn’t care, and that makes Carl feel even more warmly towards him. Peter approached him without knowing the first thing about him, and with just a few silken words has managed to get him thinking he’s something special, they’re both something special, and what there could be between them is something that might be great, that they’d be fools not to explore. 

Ridiculous, Carl thinks, but those thoughts are getting more and more distant, now he’s alone with Peter, in near silence, and Peter’s presence is filling the space between them, drawing his eyes and the attention of all his senses. 

Peter is looking out of the window at the lights on the road, but he soon looks back at Carl. “Where are we going?” he asks, at least. 

“My home,” Carl says. He could easily have gone with Peter to a hotel, or one of the flats he keeps in town, but that didn’t feel right, felt like any other off the cuff casual tryst he might stumble into, easily made, easily severed - but that’s not what he wants with Peter, not at all. He might hate the house sometimes, hate the emptiness and the loneliness and the coldness and everything represented there - but it feels like the right place for this. A bubble, a place apart, set aside from reality. And if anyone can fill all that bare, lifeless space, he feels like it’s Peter. 

Peter just nods. “Will it take long?” he asks, lowering his voice and shifting closer.

“Almost an hour, perhaps,” Carl says, trying not to shiver at the feeling of Peter’s eyes on him. 

“How _are_ we going to fill all that time,” Peter muses, but he’s already leaning in even closer, and Carl moves in too, and when their lips meet it already feels like they’ve been waiting to kiss for an age. 

This is more familiar, Carl thinks, this is safer - except it’s not, because Peter’s kiss feels like no other, and Carl can’t get close enough. His lips are soft, his kisses tender, like Carl is precious and to be cherished, and Carl honestly can’t remember the last time he felt treated this way. Not even in a relationship, but when was the last time he fucking had one of those? But then, when was the last time he wanted one? Or at least, when was the last time he met anyone he wanted one with? Peter’s kisses suddenly feel dangerous, too sweet, too alluring, and what are they going to do to Carl, if he already feels this dizzy with them? 

“I hope your fella there doesn’t mind a show,” Peter murmurs, gesturing towards the driver’s seat.

“He’s very discreet,” Carl smirks. “A trusted member of the family.”

“I don’t care anyway,” Peter says, his lips still touching Carl’s. “I don’t care if he minds, and I don’t care if he tells the whole world. I’d be proud, in fact,” he says, and kisses Carl again, like he can’t help himself. “I’d be proud if everyone in the world knew I was the one kissing you right now.” 

Peter’s tongue isn’t just silver, it’s golden, jewel-studded, but it’s soft, so soft against Carl’s own. Carl can’t decide which is more exciting, his syrup-sweet words, or satin-smooth kisses. 

“I wanted to kiss you as soon as I saw you,” Peter whispers. “You were the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you’re here with me now.”

“You charmed me,” Carl murmurs back, his lips curling into the briefest smile before Peter’s mouth is on his again. 

“You can feel it too, can’t you,” Peter breathes. “Something magical. We could be magical.”

“Yeah,” Carl agrees, his head full of sparks and nothing else. He’s given into it, because it feels so perfect in this moment that it doesn’t matter if it’s all just a mirage, doesn’t matter if it’ll evaporate with the dawn, and Peter will creep, sheepish, from his bed with a cheque or the family silver or Carl’s dignity. Because if it’s a dream it’s a beautiful one, and it’s better than a quick fuck in some dingy toilet, and since when has Carl cared about tomorrow anyway, when today is here to be enjoyed? And oh, he enjoys the way Peter’s hand slips up his thigh, warm fingers pressing, sliding closer, covering his cock as it stiffens quickly against Peter’s touch. Peter rubs him through his trousers, slow and firm, winding him up till he moans softly, his hips lifting to press himself against Peter’s hand, chasing more. 

Peter smiles. Carl’s eyes are half-closed, but he sees it. Peter moves both hands to Carl’s crotch now, undoing his belt and drawing his zip down, his right hand venturing inside. He touches Carl over the material of his underwear, teasing, and he moans louder, his skin prickling inside and out. He feels so hot already, so turned on, and when Peter gently eases his cock out and lowers his mouth to it he wants to cry out in relief. Peter sucks him like he kisses, velvety and deep, and Carl feels like he’s melting inside, unable and unwilling to move except to rock his hips into Peter’s soft mouth. He doesn’t want to be rough, he doesn’t want to _take_ , he just wants to accept what Peter is giving him, enjoy every moment, every sensation as it builds within him. He puts a hand to the back of Peter’s head, to guide not to force, but Peter doesn’t need any guidance at all, not even when Carl feels himself trembling, spiralling, and he jerks, coming in Peter’s mouth, and Peter just swallows willingly, letting Carl ride it out. 

Eventually Peter eases off him, sits up slowly, and Carl, shivering and still panting, tucks himself away and fastens himself back up. Peter leans into him, his face buried in Carl’s neck and he can feel every breath, rapid and unsteady. Carl touches him with clumsy hands, fumbles for Peter’s own fly and, with not nearly so much care as Peter took with him, reaches for his cock as Peter whimpers.

“Carl, if you touch me I’m gonna come in about three seconds,” he says, his voice strained and rough. 

“Do you want me to?” Carl murmurs. He feels sure he knows the answer.

“Oh, god, yes,” Peter pleads, and Carl wraps his hand around him, surer now, and begins to stroke. Peter stutters and bucks into his fist, and, true to his word, it’s only moments before he’s spilling all over Carl’s hand and his suit and the soft cream leather of the backseat. “Sorry,” he says dreamily, still breathing hard, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“S’alright,” Carl mumbles. “It’s far from the first time that’s happened.” 

He immediately feels like he shouldn’t have said that, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind, chuckling softly. Carl suddenly wonders what they’re going to do now. They’re probably not even halfway home, and they’ve already done what they were on their way to do. But as soon as Peter looks up and meets his gaze, Carl knows they’re not done yet. As soon as they get back to the house, Carl knows he’s going to want Peter again, and he thinks Peter will be ready too. 

They stare at each other dazedly for a few minutes, and Carl feels rather smug about the big dopey grin on Peter’s face. As he starts to come back to himself he starts to wonder about Peter. He can’t believe he’s here with him either - Carl could be anyone, but here he is, letting himself be lured into his car, to his house some distance away, with barely a question. He’s either very trusting, or thinks Carl must be the easiest mark in the world, doing all the work for him, inviting him in, laying himself vulnerable to whatever Peter might do to him or take from him. 

Carl finds the thought not at all frightening. After all, if Peter was going to rob him, he could easily have done that already at the party. Peter’s the one who has no idea where he’s going to, so it won’t be easy for him to get away, if he wants to steal from Carl’s home. And if he wants to do Carl harm - well, Carl’s a rational enough man that he thinks it seems rather unlikely at this stage. 

He’s curious, though. Peter must have an interesting story to tell, though Carl isn't sure how much of it he'd believe. He finds himself wanting to hear anything Peter has to say, however true or otherwise it might be. He ponders for a while how best to get Peter to talk about himself, but somehow, he doesn't think it'll be that difficult.

“So if you suppose you're a musician,” he says eventually, “What else do you suppose you are?”

The question seems to please Peter, and he looks as though he's giving it some thought, trying to come up with an adequate reply. “A wanderer,” he says eventually. “In life and in the world.” He gives Carl a funny little smile that he can't quite interpret. Unexpectedly he reaches towards Carl again, gently tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and lets his hand linger, soft on Carl's cheek. “What about you?” he asks, his voice just as soft. “What do you suppose you are?”

“The opposite,” Carl replies, failing to keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice. “Stuck in one place, on one path, forever.”

Peter rubs his hand over Carl's cheek, neck, back up through his hair, and it's a comforting, caring, intimate gesture, even though Peter is still basically a stranger. “Nothing has to be forever, unless you want it to be,” he says, quiet but with feeling. “I'll help you to be free. If you want it.”

Carl can't answer, and he feels like a coward because of it. He wants to stay in this dream with Peter, free of everything else, but he's so dazzled with it he can't think, can't remember what else there even is. It must be important, or he wouldn't feel so weighed down by it, so bound to it against his will. What else could be stopping him from just breaking out completely, and being like Peter, taking a chance on a stranger in a strange place, on an unknown road? 

He knows what, surely; as much as Carl likes to shock his family, push the boundaries of what's expected of him, think _Fuck 'em_ \- it's safe, really, isn't it? He still has all the trappings afforded by his status to fall back on. Just playing, he thinks again. When was the last time he did anything that was real? The past hour, with Peter, is the most of anything he's felt in… perhaps his whole adult life. It's a lot. And perhaps some of it is frightening, but with Peter right there beside him, mysterious and full of delicate words and unexplored thoughts - he feels on the brink of something vital, and he can't let it slip through his fingers.

He takes Peter’s hand from where it’s come to rest on his shoulder, and he places a kiss on the palm, making Peter smile. 

“We must be nearly there now,” he murmurs, and Peter looks out the window. 

“I don’t see any lights,” he says. “I already love it.” 

Carl suddenly feels all the nerves he should have felt before he spontaneously decided to bring Peter back to the house. When was the last time he did that with someone he’d just met? Never. He’s _never_ done that before. The only people who come up here are people who already know him well, people from the same _set_. What the fuck was he thinking? It seemed like a wonderful idea when they set off, fill the grand, cold old place with Peter's presence and verve, but what is Peter actually going to think? Carl's title might be a fun accessory to dangle in front of people sometimes, when it’s going to impress some dimwits or seduce some pretty young hopeful, but right now it feels like the albatross round his neck that he always regards it as within the confines of his own mind. To be associated with this sort of lifestyle, this sort of family, in this day and age… it’s more than just mortifying. He’s genuinely hoping Peter doesn’t punch him out and start ranting about the Countryside Alliance. He may have been impressed enough with the flashy car, but Peter really doesn't seem the type to have any respect for the type of institution Carl's name makes him a part of. He's probably a republican, Carl thinks, he probably thinks Carl should go to the guillotine. What a price for a quick shag. He should've taken his chances in the loos at Brixton Academy. Damn his romantic tendencies, getting swept up in Peter's bewitching aura without a coherent thought in his mind. 

Too fucking late now, he thinks, because they're turning into the drive. Peter must’ve guessed something’s up by now, because he’s peering out of the window curiously. Carl reluctantly calls on all the experience that comes with his breeding to remain cool, keep his face impassive, wait to see what Peter has to say.


	3. Chapter 3

Carl is surprised, though he keeps that hidden too, when Peter just gets out of the car with Carl and follows him up to the front door and inside, looking up and around himself but not expressing any particular reaction out loud. Carl tries to act naturally, like he brings people he’s just met here to fuck all the time, and like he assumes Peter visits places like this all the time, and he should feel at home. After all, he shouldn’t assume that isn’t the case, should he? Peter seems unfazed, and Carl, in the midst of his relief, thinks maybe he shouldn’t be surprised after all. Peter hasn’t done or said a single thing that Carl would expect up until now, so why should he react like any other person in this situation either? 

He gathers himself. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, like he would to anyone he’d invited either here or to his flat or a hotel, with or without the intention of shagging them. 

Peter shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind, but there’s things I’d like more,” he says, his eyes fixed on Carl again, just like they were at the party.

Carl feels heat begin to trickle up his spine again, knowing he’s wanted and there’s nothing stopping them doing everything they want now. “What would you like most, Peter?” he asks. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, he sounds like he’s underwater, under a spell, under Peter’s influence, and he is. 

Peter walks towards him, comes close enough to touch, and he does, brushing Carl’s hair back from his face again, looking down into his eyes with such intent that Carl shivers. “I'd like to go to bed with you,” Peter says, and Carl is trembling with desire already. “I'd like you to make love to me. And then, at some point, I'd like you to do it again.”

Carl can't speak. Every doubt and worry that crossed his mind is rolled over, torn up, eclipsed entirely by his want for Peter, filling him up till there's no room for any other thought. He reaches up and puts a hand to the back of Peter's neck, leans up and kisses him fiercely but briefly, because there's no time to waste. He takes Peter's hand firmly in his own and leads him across the hall and up the stairs, along the corridor to his bedroom. If Peter wants to examine his surroundings at any point, that’ll have to wait, because Carl is absolutely not stopping now.

Fortunately Peter shows no intention of wanting to do anything other than follow Carl, and, when they get inside the room, resume kissing just as hotly as they did downstairs. It's a little different to when they were in the car, a bursting into life, with the knowledge that they have space and time and privacy enough to make the most of one another's bodies now. Peter takes off his shoes and socks and then his suit jacket right away, just drops it on the floor without even looking, and fuck it, Carl does the same. Peter takes a little more care with his hat, though, breaking away from Carl for just long enough to place it on the chest of drawers before he comes back for more kisses, hands sliding around and down Carl's back and untucking his shirt from his trousers. His kisses are impatient, but Carl wants to smile at the care he also takes undoing Carl’s shirt, like he maintains respect for fine tailoring. Carl enjoys undoing Peter’s tie, then his shirt, excited at undressing each other properly for the first time, new discoveries, breathless anticipation. Peter’s skin is pale and smooth, his body a little soft, invitingly so. Carl just wants to touch, all of it, so he does, his hands sliding down Peter’s sides, his thumbs settling at his hips as Peter lets his shirt slide off with the rest. 

“Fuck,” sighs Peter, his eyes following his hands as they stroke over Carl’s chest and stomach. “You really are too gorgeous. I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to touch you.”

“Please don’t stop,” Carl murmurs, kissing Peter with more urgency. He’s used to people telling him he’s good-looking, whatever, but usually he sees it for what he’s sure it must be - flattery, or deference, or hoping to squeeze the most out of him that they can. But when Peter says it - when Peter says these things, his heart flips and stutters, his skin goosepimples, and Carl feels like maybe, maybe he could actually believe it. 

“I don’t think I can stop, now,” Peter murmurs against Carl’s lips. His hands are sliding into Carl’s trousers again, unfastening and pushing them down, cupping first his arse and then the bulge of his cock through his underwear, as if Peter can’t decide where he wants his hands to be, what he wants to be touching most. 

Carl just wants everything now, wants to be naked with Peter, wants to press himself against him, feel every inch of Peter as close as he can be. He pushes Peter’s own trousers and underwear down, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the way Peter shivers before Carl even touches him. Finally, finally they’re both undressed, and Carl tugs Peter onto the bed and into his arms, pulling him close and kissing him, deep and breathless and not wanting to stop. Peter’s lips are soft and so willing, so eager, and the way he responds is so delicious, rubbing himself against Carl so desperately that Carl can’t help but feel sexy and desired and like this is _so right_. 

Peter writhes and shudders in Carl’s embrace, tilting his head as Carl goes to kiss and mouth at his neck, making a sound in his throat that Carl can feel against his lips. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Peter breathes. “I’m glad we got off in the car earlier, ‘cos if we hadn’t, I’d probably come just from this, before you even fucked me.”

Carl groans, moves up to kiss Peter’s mouth again, unbearably turned on. They both need it now, the episode in the car only took the edge off, and Carl feels the same, if they hadn’t had that he’d be finished by now. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed about it, rather - _enlivened_ , happy he can still feel this kind of excitement, this level of lust and feverish urgency, like he hasn’t felt in years and years. He doesn’t remember the last time he wanted to fuck twice in as many hours - not without chemical assistance, anyway, and it’s almost a relief to realise he, himself, can still be this affected by someone, wanting them so deeply it’s an ache inside and out. 

He breaks away from Peter and turns as little as he can manage, fumbling around clumsily for a condom and lube. Peter follows his body, kissing his chest and lapping at his nipples and making him shiver, pressing him down until he’s on his back on the bed, Peter over him, straddling him, and Carl realises, with a startling shock of arousal, how Peter wants them to do it. 

“Sit up,” Peter murmurs, shifting so Carl can do as he says. “I want to be able to kiss you.”

Weak and throbbing with desire, Carl manages to do what Peter asks, shuffles back so he's resting against the pillows, feeling his pulse thrum as he waits for Peter to do what he wants. 

He doesn't wait long, Peter climbing immediately into his lap with purpose, devouring him with kisses and reaching down between them to rub his cock. Carl moans at his touch, slow and sure and when Carl looks at his face, Peter looks like he's enjoying it just as much as him, enjoying making Carl feel good, working him up till he's panting for more, at Peter's mercy.

“I can't wait to have you inside me,” Peter whispers, leaning in close to Carl's ear. “God, I'm so fucking turned on!”

Carl groans, grasping at Peter’s hips and thighs helplessly, trying to hold himself together. Peter's boldness is exciting, it feels too good to have somebody take control of him, want him so much they're going to take what they want, not just try to please him for some feeble gain or out of a misplaced sense of respect. He loves that Peter is so into him, so fucking hot and intense and like Carl is all he's ever wanted. 

Peter reaches down with his free hand and picks the condom up off the bed, a grin spreading across his face like he can't help it as he gets it out and rolls it onto Carl's hard cock. Carl holds his breath as Peter smooths lube over him, tries not to move, tries to be patient, holds himself steady as Peter lifts himself up and positions himself, ready. It's hard for him to not close his eyes, it feels like too much as he looks at Peter and Peter looks right back at him, but he wants to, wants to share all of this moment with him as Peter sinks down, taking Carl inside, all the way. 

Peter does close his eyes now, and he takes a shuddering breath, before he opens them again and gives Carl a smile that, if he could think at all right now, he might think was smug. Carl can only sit there, stupefied, as Peter starts to roll his hips, just slight movements at first, and he leans in to kiss Carl like he promised, hot and breathtaking, and Carl’s head is already spinning. It feels so good already, pleasure just waiting under the surface, beneath his skin, ready to burst and flood through him when Peter starts to ride him properly. He moans, thrusting up as Peter moves down, gratified when he cries out, sharp and eyes shut tight, and Carl knows he's got it right. 

Peter moves on him smoothly, not too quick yet, and Carl savours these first moments of this intimacy between them, and when he looks into Peter's eyes he can see he is, too. Carl can feel something rising and swelling between them and inside him, full and lush and reaching every part of his body. He doesn't remember the last person who could make him feel this depth of sensation, this complete bliss, building between them so naturally and perfectly that Carl is already in danger of being overwhelmed with it. Peter's hands come up to cup his face for more quick, breathless kisses, licking into Carl's mouth with his clever tongue, then breaking away as he gasps and moans, urging Carl on, deeper and faster and harder. They clutch at each other, sticky and damp with sweat and clinging like static, and Carl can’t believe he only met Peter tonight, can’t believe someone can make him feel this good. He can’t believe anything about Peter, can’t even believe he’s real, he must be a magician, enchanting Carl and seeing right inside him, seeing his wants and needs and fulfilling them all. 

“Christ, you feel so good inside me,” Peter pants, his lips hot against Carl’s. “I want to come so bad, but I want to do this forever.”

It just drives Carl on, kissing messily at Peter’s mouth, biting at his lips, mouthing at his throat, greedy for all the contact he can have, tasting Peter so he’ll remember it all. He wants to come too, can’t wait any longer, and he holds onto Peter’s hips, firm, as he thrusts up harder, rougher now, pleasure spiralling and stealing away all of his control. Peter slips his hand between them, grips his own cock and starts to stroke, but Carl wants to do it, wants to make Peter feel as good as he’s doing him, so he tugs Peter’s hand away and replaces it with his own, trying to do it like Peter was, like he feels Peter will like. 

Peter jerks into his hand, stuttering, and Carl pushes desperately into him, starting to unravel and fall apart now, closer and closer, and as Peter arches and bucks against him, Carl can’t hold back any more, doesn’t want to, and he comes, holding Peter to him as he shudders against him. Peter gasps and groans, and his hand covers Carl's, gone lax as he came, and moves it on himself, just a few strokes before he's coming, spurting onto Carl's stomach with a cut off cry. Trembling, he slumps forward into Carl's arms, and Carl holds him, affection suffusing through him, warm and sweet. He already knows he doesn't want to let Peter go, and he wonders if he should feel more afraid about that than he does. Right now his head is full of clouds and cotton wool, fuzzy and content, and all he can think about is how wonderful it feels, right here in this moment, to be with someone who can make him feel so good and who's obviously something so very special. He realises with sudden clarity how incomparable this is to the encounters he's been used to, shallow and brief - just fun, he'd always thought, because that's the point of life and why shouldn't he take what he can? But Peter, completely by accident, has shown him just a glimpse of something else, something that could exist so much deeper inside him, and now he yearns for it more than he could ever have expected.


	4. Chapter 4

Eventually Peter eases himself off him and flops down onto the bed, smiling up at him in a way that makes Carl feel both smug and soppy. 

“That was incredible,” he murmurs. 

“Thanks,” mumbles Carl with a lobsided smile. He gets up to dispose of the condom and find his cigarettes, and lights one as he gets back into bed, feeling even more gratified when Peter immediately snuggles closer to him. 

Peter takes his cigarette right out of his mouth and puts it in his own, and Carl thinks it's quite nice to share like this, so he does the same in return, and when it's gone he lights another.

He's almost surprised when Peter finally says, “So, where are we?”

Carl panics internally for a second, and decides to take the question at face value first. “Hampshire,” he says, trying to keep his tone neutral. He knows he'll have to explain the inevitable soon, but the longer he can put that off, the better.

“And this is your… house?” Peter asks, just as conversationally, hesitating just for a moment, as if he's unsure of the adequacy of the word.

“Yeah,” says Carl. He doesn't want to tense up or seem unwilling to talk about it, but, in all honesty, he is.

“You live here alone?” Peter asks, a faint smile curling his lips.

“Mostly, yes,” Carl says, smiling a little as well, because he can see the positives of this line of enquiry, for sure. “I mean, there are some… staff. But they have their own apartments and things. And my family usually stay in town these days.”

Peter looks up at him, widening his eyes mock-sadly. “So you're here in this grand, spacious old house, all alone… Must get lonely,” he says, and Carl isn't sure how much of his meaning is innuendo, and how much is genuine concern.

Carl shrugs. “I try and keep myself busy,” he says euphemistically. “But you’re right,” he adds impulsively, because for some reason he doesn’t want to be flippant with Peter, not about this. “It’s hard for people to get close,” he says. “For all sorts of reasons.”

Peter nods slowly, his eyes not leaving Carl’s. “It can be frightening, can’t it,” he says softly, and Carl feels completely exposed, like Peter has seen straight into his heart, even if Carl didn't really mean him to. But he doesn't mind - right now, here like this, it feels freeing, that someone can understand him without him needing to speak. He listens intently when Peter continues. “But I'm not frightened, and I don't want you to be either. I want to get to know you, Carl, and I want you to know about me. The important stuff, not just the stupid peripherals, you know? The bits that really matter.”

Carl nods, still in that dreamy magic world that Peter's woven around them, and everything he says makes perfect sense. And Carl wants to believe that what he's saying is he's not interested in the big house or Carl's wealth or lineage or any of the things that surround him, but whatever it is within him that made Peter approach him, come with him, say all those lovely words that drew Carl in so easily. 

If Peter believes there's something there, inside him, maybe there really is after all. Carl just hopes that when he looks for it, really looks, what he finds is what he wants. 

And Peter is right. Carl feels like he should probably find out things like where Peter lives and what his surname is, but all those details seem prosaic and unnecessary. Those aren't the things that define anyone, and Carl knows that all too well.

“So I guess there must be a lot of rooms in this place, eh,” Peter says presently, his tone lighter again, sly and teasing.

Carl smiles, hoping he knows exactly where this is going. “Quite a few, yes,” he says. “Rooms that no one really goes in, and certainly not without knocking first.”

“Very interesting,” muses Peter. “You'll have to give me the tour. In the morning,” he says, putting his arm across Carl's waist and decisively pulling him down closer to him. 

Carl relaxes in Peter's loose embrace, reliving the whole evening in his head. He remembers the doubts and questions he had, wondering about Peter's angle and his sincerity, and he supposes he should still have some concerns about that, but he finds he just doesn't care. Most of him is entirely and probably quite naively convinced that Peter means every word he's said, as if, if Peter was a con artist, the sex couldn't possibly be that good. But even the small corner of his mind that keeps trying to maintain a sense of wariness, for his own protection, can't make him give enough of a fuck to really worry about it. _It's dangerous,_ he tries to warn himself. _Don't give yourself away so easily, don't let yourself fall, because the landing will hurt._ What's the worst that could happen, he'd asked himself earlier, and now it feels like the answer has shifted - Peter has already begun to stake a claim on his distant, closed off heart, and the worst would be that he could snuff out that hopeful, kindling flame as soon as it starts to burn. 

But keeping hold of his heart hasn't been so much fun anyway, when there's been no one he's wanted to entrust it to, or even anyone who wanted to claim it. Peter is already the best candidate he's ever met.

Carl is getting drowsy, though he can tell Peter is still awake. There's still the vaguest feeling in the back of his mind that he shouldn't sleep so easily, with this unknown quantity right beside him in his bed, in his home - but he doesn't want to pay it any attention at all, and sleep is soon inescapable. 

When he wakes, it's just starting to get light outside, but the lights in the room are still on, and although he knows right away that he's alone, it takes a few moments for him to remember that he shouldn't be. He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he should do, and how he should feel. Logic tells him Peter must still be here somewhere, but cynicism tells him he's an idiot, and he deserves everything he gets. 

Carl tries not to think at all, and just waits. 

Despite himself, cynicism must have gained the upper hand, because he actually jumps when the door of the en suite opens, and Peter comes back in and back to bed. 

Carl doesn't want to let on that his blood ran cold for a moment, wonders if he should just pretend to still be asleep, but he doesn't want to fake, not really, so he just smiles, and it still feels a lot more natural than the mornings after his usual encounters. There isn't usually a morning at all, at least, not the part that has daylight. 

Peter smiles back at him, slow and dreamy, and lies down on his side, facing Carl. “You understand, don't you Carl?” he murmurs, and his eyes slide closed before Carl can even wonder what he means.

Carl doesn't understand, but Peter is back, and Carl feels pathetically relieved. He gets up and goes to the bathroom, has a piss, brushes his teeth, turns the bedroom light off on his way back to bed. He curls close to Peter's warm body, and for a brief moment tries to think about what it is that he should understand, but the thoughts keep escaping from his warm, contented mind, and he lets himself drift back to sleep.

When Carl wakes up again, it's to soft hands on his body, teasing and caressing, and he feels himself responding in a perfectly predictable way. He blinks his eyes clear and Peter kisses him on the mouth immediately, slow and thorough, and Carl puts his arms around him and pulls him to him, rubbing against him and pleased when he feels Peter, already hard against his hip. 

“Do you remember what I said last night?” Peter whispers in his ear, and Carl shivers at the feeling and his words.

“I remember everything,” he murmurs, his heart beating faster. He wants to say every word back to Peter, tell him they’re the most important words anyone has ever said to him, but in the immediacy of this moment there’s one part he needs to say most. “You told me to make love to you, and as you’re still here, I assume it was satisfactory enough that you do want me to do it again.”

Peter laughs delightedly. “Correct,” he says, and he rolls onto his back, taking Carl with him. 

He puts his arms around Carl’s neck, pulling him down so they can kiss more, hotter and hungrier, and Carl runs his hands over Peter’s smooth body and down to his hips and thighs, parting them easily so he can lie between them. Peter arches up against him, his cock rubbing between them, and Carl can see he doesn’t want him to take his time, he's keen and ready right now. It's exciting, that Peter wants him this much again, so urgently and eagerly, that Carl could make him feel so good he can't wait for more.

He disengages for just as long as it takes him to get a condom and find the lube, still down the side of the pillow from last night, and as soon as he's ready he pushes inside, straight in to the hilt. Peter groans, a sound of satisfaction, and his hands go straight to Carl's arse, grasping and pulling him in deeper. Carl moans, rocking his hips and trying to get further in like Peter wants, and god, it's such a rush when Peter cries out in pleasure when Carl moves inside him, finding that place, that good place and trying to reach it every time. 

Peter is intoxicating, the way he feels, the way he moves against Carl, the sounds he makes, everything about him is as intense when they fuck as it is when they talk, when Peter spins those gossamer words that make Carl want to hear more and more. He wants more of all of Peter, especially this, right now, this exhilarating pleasure that makes him dizzy, thrusting harder into him, trying to give him what he wants. Peter clings to him tight, hands clutching at his arse and the small of his back, and the feeling of being so close, their bodies fitting together, is like electricity between them, prickling his skin and sending heat through his veins. Carl’s never experienced the kind of chemistry he feels with Peter in bed or out of it, the kind that feels like it could consume him all too easily, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

He reaches between them to stroke Peter’s dick again, obeying when Peter tells him _“Faster!”_ , relishing the way he gasps and cries out and arches under him. Carl still can’t believe himself, he feels ten years younger, so hyped up and turned on so stupidly easily, and ready to come in no time even after the things they did last night. He wants to get Peter there before him, fucks him harder, strokes him faster, and Peter goes slack under him, mouth open and eyes closed, head thrown back on the pillow, and Carl feels his cock swell even harder in his hand, and Peter comes, messy and hot and shuddering against him. Carl grins, his head dropping to Peter’s shoulder, and he only needs a few more thrusts before he comes too, collapsing into Peter’s willing arms. 

Peter presses breathless kisses into his hair, runs his warm hands over Carl’s back, soothing and affectionate. Carl lets his eyes close, lets himself rest against Peter’s sticky skin, sated and euphoric. He’s woken up twice now since meeting Peter, so he’s getting surer that this isn’t just a dream, though it still feels like one and Peter still seems like one.


	5. Chapter 5

Eventually he hauls himself off Peter, gets rid of the condom, lights two cigarettes this time and offers one to Peter. 

He realises he has not even the faintest concept of what time it is, though that’s not really unusual. In fact, it’s a rather refreshing surprise to wake up without at least a headache, and Carl feels uncharacteristically cheery. 

“You want some coffee?” he asks. “I don’t usually eat, but if you want something I’m sure they can…” He trails off, suddenly unsure of what to do again. How does this possibly sound, to an ordinary person? Horribly spoilt and indulgent, no doubt, and the last thing he wants is to erect some kind of class barrier between him and Peter, to put him off with his pampered, out-of-touch lifestyle. He can’t pretend he doesn’t make the most of all the comforts available to him, but he hopes Peter can enjoy them too, and that they don’t make him feel uncomfortable. 

“No, I’m alright for food, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. Earl Grey if you’ve got it. Strong though,” Peter says, perfectly conversationally, and Carl smiles, both with relief and at Peter’s endearingly specific tea preference. 

“I’ll have some sent up,” he says, and Peter smiles back, impish and sweet, and Carl’s heart does a silly skip in his chest.

Peter sits up, finally, and stretches. “Do you mind if I have a shower?” he asks. “Your bathroom’s a lot nicer than mine,” he says, chuckling wryly. 

“Of course,” says Carl. “Just use whatever you need,” he says, gesturing vaguely. 

Peter gives him a kiss on the cheek before he departs, and Carl’s heart soars a little higher. This all feels so wonderful, unexpectedly so, and he feels giddy with it. Even though he keeps getting the flashes of uneasy self-consciousness about his life and all the rigmarole around it that have stopped him inviting people here before, Peter hasn’t batted an eyelid at any of it. He’s taken everything in his stride, and Carl is stupidly grateful. He thinks it must count for something, that Peter is so unfazed by it - he fits, somehow, in the way that Peter probably fits anywhere, just by being so unique. 

Carl drinks his coffee when it arrives, wondering if it caused any kind of stir downstairs to have to deliver _two_ drinks to his room. Probably not, he reflects - the staff probably don’t give even half a fuck about his sex life, and usually that’s the way he’d like to keep it, but somehow he feels like this is momentous, like Peter is someone he wants everyone to know about, to show off that he’s managed to get a real one for once, someone he feels worthy of bringing back here, not just fucking in a nightclub toilet, or taking to a hotel and sending off with money for a cab. 

He remembers what Peter said last night in the car, about wanting the world to know they were together, and he smiles secretly to himself, feeling his cheeks warm. He does feel like that, feels like he wants to tell people, proud of bagging the extraordinary creature that’s Peter for himself. 

Peter emerges from the bathroom and comes back over to the bed, stooping down to kiss Carl’s mouth tenderly. Still completely naked, he pours himself a cup of tea, looking delighted at the pot and strainer, and tastes it approvingly. Carl feels a certain satisfaction that he’s been able to provide something pleasing to Peter, even though he really had nothing to do with it himself. 

Carl takes a quick shower himself, trying not to acknowledge that perhaps he’s hurrying because there’s still the lingering worry in the back of his mind that maybe Peter will disappear. He’s ashamed of it, but he still remembers the hollow feeling when he woke up earlier and realised he was alone, however temporarily.

When he goes back to the bedroom, however, Peter is still there, though he’s put his clothes on and is sitting by the window, still drinking his tea. Carl dresses, much more casually than he was last night, and goes over to Peter, wanting to touch and kiss him as easily as Peter did to him, but wondering what exactly the right approach is. He wants to be affectionate and show Peter there’s meaning in what they’ve done together, but he doesn’t want to be clingy or off-putting. Just in case Peter, unlike Carl, is like this with everyone, and is still making up his mind. 

He settles for resting his hand lightly at the back of Peter’s neck, and Peter looks up at him with those big eyes and a contented smile. 

“So, you want the tour?” Carl asks, and Peter gets up immediately.

“Absolutely!” he enthuses, so Carl leads him out and along the corridors, trying not to let his self-consciousness show. 

“So, you’ve got so many rooms, what else have you got locked away behind these doors?” Peter says teasingly. “Playroom? Dungeon?”

Carl laughs. “I hate to disappoint you, but no. Not that I’ve ever discovered, anyway.”

“Well, let’s see what we find today, eh?” Peter says, putting his arm around Carl’s shoulders as they walk.

Peter is appropriately admiring of the things Carl chooses to point out, and doesn’t comment too much on the bits he ignores out of embarrassment or distaste. He seems especially keen on the Victoriana, the trinkets and clocks and paintings of sailing ships, and Carl is pleased, because those are the things he finds most tolerable too, in a mass of obscenely heinous stuff that he’d sell off in a heartbeat if it was up to him. 

Peter’s eyes light up when they reach the library, too, and Carl feels foolish with happiness, so pleased again that something of his gives Peter so much joy, even if the collection pre-dates Carl by decades and centuries. 

Peter walks around the walls, his fingers brushing the spines of the books with reverence, and Carl follows, one step behind.

“Can I get any of them out?” Peter asks, in hushed tones.

Carl squirms a little. “I think it’d be better if you didn’t,” he says awkwardly, but to his relief, Peter just nods and lowers his hand.

“I understand,” he says. “They’re beautiful. Such a shame they become so fragile that they can’t be used for their intended purpose, isn’t it? I mean, what’s the point?” He pauses and shakes his head. “But then, it’d be a tragedy to use them, knowing you were going to destroy them.”

Carl can only nod. “This was always my favourite room as a child,” he says quietly. “I loved the books, even though I couldn’t read them - loved imagining the stories they told, pretending they were the exploits of my ancestors,” he goes on, chuckling. “Going on swashbuckling adventures, exploring faraway lands, all that sort of thing.”

“All the things you wished you could do,” Peter says softly, and Carl flushes at being seen through so easily. If it were anyone else, he’d undoubtedly bristle, deflect defensively, but somehow, when Peter says it, it’s just another little piece, another little sign, that on some level, without Carl really knowing how or why, Peter understands him.

And Carl thinks again of Peter’s words in the early morning, and wishes more than anything that he understood him, too. He feels guilty, and dense, and like he’s letting down his side of something that they haven’t yet put words to. 

Maybe it’s just sleight of hand from Peter, like a conjurer or a medium, picking up on the cues and the clues and adding them up so they seem like more than they are. That’s a theory he’ll keep somewhere, for insurance, but he doesn’t want to believe it, so he won’t. Carl’s always been very well placed to create his own reality, and that’s what he’s going to keep doing now. 

The last thing that catches Peter’s eye is, perhaps unsurprisingly, the family portrait. It’s a photograph, not like the historic paintings that stare sternly down on them from the staircases, and it’s a few years old, but it’s the most recent one, and Carl isn’t too mortified to have it on display. He looks a lot less weathered in it than he does now, though, so perhaps he should start to think about having it removed.

Peter examines it closely, and the low whistle he makes when he looks at Carl in the picture gives real life Carl a pleasant, if toe-curling, thrill inside. 

“You’ve always been this beautiful then,” says Peter, glancing between him and the photo with wide eyes.

Carl looks at the floor modestly, trying not to smile too stupidly. “This is my sister,” he points out, by way of diversion. “And this is my dad, and step-mum. And my half-brothers, and half-sister, and step-brother, and step-sister.”

“Quite the dynasty,” murmurs Peter, with half a smile. “Can I ask what happened to your mum?” he says, with a sensitive softness, though Carl would willingly tell him the truth whatever it was.

“She... wasn’t really cut out for this life,” Carl explains. “I suppose she’s more like you - a wanderer,” he goes on with a little smile. “She and my dad divorced when I was very young. I’m sure it was quite the talking point in Hello and The Lady,” he adds dryly. 

“Do you still see her?” asks Peter. 

“I do now,” says Carl carefully. “When she left… well, she sort of went off the grid rather. Literally. And it really wasn’t seemly for us kids to be sent off to stay in a yurt in Somerset for our summer holidays, so we didn’t see much of her until she decided to move back to civilisation, as it were.”

“Would you have liked to go and stay in the yurt?” Peter asks, still with that soft smile.

“When I was young, yes, desperately,” admits Carl. “But then… I suppose you start to get used to the advantages you have here,” he sighs. “You see the appeal, when you’re a bit older. But then… then you get even older, and you’re wishing for the yurt again,” he says wryly. 

“You could do it, though, couldn’t you,” says Peter. “Who’s going to stop you? You don’t seem like the type to follow convention exactly,” he adds, eyebrows raised.

Carl pauses, thinking. He wants to give Peter an honest answer, but he’s not sure he’s even dared to delve into it enough himself to know what it is. He often feels like he spends his life fighting what other people want from him, but mostly they’re trying to stop him doing things that will publicly shame them - and it would _really_ embarrass them if he disappeared off to live in the woods, wouldn’t it? He could show the Marquess of Bath a thing or two!

But, despite all that, the idea is somehow without appeal. And he supposes he does know the reason, really.

“I’m just a coward, I guess,” he says, a little bitterly. “I couldn’t survive out there like that. I might be the black sheep, but I’m not making a big important statement, really. All I want is to live the way I want to, without so many people getting on my case about it.”

“I understand that feeling completely,” Peter murmurs. “But you’re not a coward, Carl, or you wouldn’t’ve brought me here, or even spoken to me. You just want to be free, and happy, like everyone, but you don’t have to be a wanderer to be free.”

“You said you’d help me - to be free,” Carl remembers, his voice not much more than a whisper, as though it’s a secret just between them in the empty hall. “I want you to. Please.”

Peter smiles, properly smiles, and closes the short distance between them to take Carl in his arms and kiss his lips. “There is nothing I would like more.” They kiss a little more, before Peter breaks away with a sigh, resting his forehead against Carl’s. “I need to go home though,” he says, sounding apologetic. 

Of course he will, Carl realises, all he has with him are the clothes on his back. But where are they going to go from here?

“I can give you a lift into town,” he offers. He hesitates - he doesn’t want to say, _’And when shall I pick you up?’_ because that’s definitely too strong, but at the same time, it’s exactly what he wants, rightly or wrongly. He wants Peter to come back here with him, where they can get to know each other in their own space, no distractions, no interruptions. He can definitely do that, there’s no particular demands on his time, and somehow he suspects Peter probably can too.

“I shouldn’t be too long,” Peter says. “But do you mind giving me the address here, or something? I don’t suppose this place has a post code, does it? But it’d be handy if I could bring my car up on the way back.”

Once again, Carl is left trying to mask his surprise. Peter clearly has none of the doubts that Carl has, just readily assumes he’s coming here again, and that’s fine with Carl, it saves a lot of unnecessary dallying and worrying. 

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “If you give me your phone, I’ll put my number in, and put this place in your maps.”

Peter readily agrees, and puts his own number into Carl’s phone as well. 

“You… want to go now?” Carl asks reluctantly. He doesn’t want to go too soon if they don’t have to.

“Yeah,” Peter sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Carl says. He’s not sure what else he can say. _’Thanks for last night’_ is pretty fucking inadequate, but _’You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years’_ is a bit much. But then, Peter seems to have a knack of knowing the important things in his brain without him saying them, so he hopes this is the same. 

He starts to call his driver, then pauses. “What car do you fancy today?” he asks, feeling daring. It’s not that he wants to show off, but Peter seemed to like the Phantom, maybe he has another favourite that Carl can supply.

Peter’s eyebrows raise. “Have you got a Jag? I mean, the XJ8’s always been my favourite, but…”

Carl doesn’t really know what that is, but he tries to show willing. “Well, I do have a Jaguar at least, so shall we go with that?”

Peter’s eyes light up, and Carl calls his driver to pick them up out the front. 

“Oh - I left my hat in your room,” says Peter as they wait. 

“Well, you’d better come back to collect it then,” says Carl, feeling confident, and they grin at each other.


	6. Chapter 6

The car, it turns out, is far more modern than Peter’s favourite, but, as with the Rolls, he seems satisfied enough. 

“You don’t ever drive yourself?” Peter asks, amused, as they get into the back. 

“Can’t,” says Carl. “Never learnt,” he adds, for clarity, in case Peter thought he’d been banned for speeding or something else exciting. “I mean, there’s never really seemed to be much need,” he says, doubting his own words as soon as he’s said them. 

“We’ll have to see about that,” says Peter, grinning naughtily. “Have a think about which of your cars you value least, then we’ll have a go round your estate.”

“Or we could use your car, if you bring it,” Carl suggests instead.

Peter laughs. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d seen it,” he says. “But we’ll see.”

“When were you thinking of coming back?” Carl says, hoping he doesn’t sound too desperate. 

“I don’t know exactly how long it’ll take,” Peter says, somewhat cryptically. “But if you’re staying in town for a bit, I can pick you up later.”

Carl thinks about it for only a moment. Rather guiltily, he realises it’s a bit of a trust exercise - he has to trust that Peter is coming back for him, but he obviously intends to, and that’s good enough for Carl right now. “Alright,” he agrees. “Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll let you know where I am.”

They drop Peter off at an address in Whitechapel, and Carl watches as subtly as he can as Peter unlocks a door beside a shop front, and goes up some stairs inside. He wonders what the place is like inside, whether Peter shares it with anyone, if he makes music there. He suddenly wishes he’d shown more of an interest, got Peter to take him up there. Peter’s seen the whole of his house, and all it says about Carl, for better or worse - he wishes he could have that glimpse into Peter's life, too.

If he's spending some time in town, he decides to visit his sister. He wonders whether to tell his driver to hang around, just in case - after all, it'll probably be easier than explaining his actual plans, but somehow he feels like that's going against the whole idea of trusting Peter, so he tells him to just go back to the house, and if he needs him, he'll send for him. It's not that unusual, he supposes, but he's suddenly sensitive about every detail, paranoid everyone can see every thought played out in his actions, and know all his stupid, crazy feelings about Peter.

“Well, this is a surprise,” says Lucie when she sees him. “I wouldn't normally expect you to surface for at least a couple of days after an awards ceremony.”

Carl had almost entirely forgotten that that was only last night. He almost laughs at the notion, his brain struggling to comprehend how much it's taken in over only the past fifteen hours or so. 

“I'll tell you the truth,” Carl says, not thinking about his words until he hears them come out of his mouth. “I've met someone.”

Lucie looks baffled at his non-sequitur. “What?”

“Last night. At the awards. I met a guy, and I'm seeing him again.” Carl didn't realise he was coming here to tell her this, but it feels good to tell someone, even if he hasn't the faintest idea what the reaction might be.

“You met someone last night? You always meet someone,” she says with a roll of her eyes. 

“This guy was different,” Carl persists. “I've never met anyone like him before. I’ve never _felt_ this way before,” he admits. He wants her to take him seriously, after all the badgering about growing up and acting more responsibly, he somehow feels like showing he has some real, deeper emotions should prove he’s capable of real adult things, right? Though from the look on her face, he’s realising that making hyperbolic statements about his feelings for someone he met less than twenty four hours ago probably isn’t a great testament to his maturity after all. 

Lucie is just staring at him in disbelief. “Well, what is he like? Why is he so special?” she asks eventually, and Carl is grateful she’s at least humouring him a little, for now. 

“He’s a musician,” says Carl, again realising how out of his depth he is, trying to describe Peter. He doesn't know how he can find adequate words to convey Peter's irresistible charisma, the way he drew Carl in without even really having to try. Even if he knew any more about him than the little he does, he knows he’d still struggle to explain him, and what happened between them last night. “The way he speaks, he said things no-one’s ever said to me. And the sex was fucking incredible,” he adds with undeniable smugness, though he’s aware he’s using a predictable cop out, trying to divert from both his vulnerability admitting all this, and what Lucie must see as downright foolhardiness. 

She tuts. “Oh, I understand now,” she says. “Well, he must’ve been good if you’re actually bothering to tell me about him. You almost had me going for a minute, with all that feelings talk.”

“I meant it!” he blurts out, aware that he’s vacillating. “I took him to the house, Lucie. I’ve never even wanted to do that before!”

Lucie’s eyes widen. “You _what_? You let some stranger have a good look at all our family heirlooms? And he doubtless had a chance to scope out all the security too,” she says, her head in her hands. She looks up again and fixes him with a scowl. “He could be heading back up there with a van right now,” she says.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he snaps. He’s perfectly aware she’s not being unreasonable, but he’s not going to admit it - and besides, he does trust Peter, and he also trusts his own judgement. “It would be nice if you gave me enough credit to think that I wouldn’t let any old vagabonds and ne’er-do-wells in.”

“Oh, yes, because you’ve always proved so responsible in the past,” she sneers. “One day you really are going to go too far, and we’ll all have to pay for it.”

Carl throws up his hands. “You know, last night I wasn’t even trying,” he says honestly. “I wasn’t trying to show anybody up, I wasn’t trying to be outrageous, I wasn’t trying to cause problems. I met a wonderful man, who I’m actually genuinely interested in, for the first time in forever, and I just wanted to try and make a normal human connection, like anyone else. But if I’m still going to cop flak for it, I suppose I might as well just do exactly what I want.”

Before he can hear her reply, he makes a swift exit. He knows when it gets reported back to the family, which it inevitably will, Lucie will use words like ‘flounce’ and ‘tantrum’, but he doesn’t give a fuck right now. He just wants to see Peter, get back to the house, and pretend they’re the only people in the world. 

But he still has no idea when to expect Peter, and is at a bit of a loss as to what to do now. He supposes at least it’s for the best if he leaves Lucie’s because getting picked up from there would surely lead to an unpleasant meeting. He wanders around for a bit but it’s cold and starting to rain, so he goes into a cafe and gets a coffee. Then a sandwich, and some tea, and then he feels a bit awkward, so he goes on to another cafe, and gets another coffee. He knows he’s just waiting, really, doesn’t want to start anything that he can’t just drop at a moment’s notice, if Peter is on his way.

By the time he gets a message from him, Carl is so tightly wound that he properly jumps at the sound of the alert. Relief floods through him, and a certain sense of petty vindication - _’Take that, Lucie!’_ \- and he sends Peter his location, finishes his coffee and steps immediately outside. He still has to wait a good twenty minutes for Peter, feeling more and more of an idiot as the rain soaks him through, but that’s no-one’s fault but his own. Eventually, an ageing black Volvo estate pulls up in front of him, and despite being fucking wet and freezing cold, all his misery evaporates immediately when he sees Peter, smiling at him apologetically. 

“You look a bit damp,” he says as Carl gets into the passenger seat. “I might have a towel back there somewhere if you want to look.”

Carl's eyes widen when he looks over his shoulder. There’s everything he could imagine and lots that he never would have - coats, shoes, scarves, at least two guitars, a number of old-fashioned suitcases like the sort a wartime evacuee might've had - and then a typewriter, right next to a laptop.

“You packed light, then,” Carl deadpans. He doesn't mind at all, if it means Peter wants to stay for quite a while.

“Well, I always think it's best to consider every eventuality,” Peter says easily. 

Carl smiles. It takes them rather longer to get back to the house in Peter's decrepit Volvo than it did in the Rolls Royce, and it's getting dark by the time they arrive. Peter seems happy enough to leave most of his stuff in the car ( _”It doesn't exactly seem like a crime hotspot round here”_ ), but he does insist on bringing in the guitars and typewriter, along with a couple of the suitcases. Carl almost hopes that someone is around, some of the staff or, even better, a visiting family member, so he can see their reaction to this eccentric man seemingly taking up residence, but unfortunately no one appears.

That's probably even better, Carl thinks. Let Peter stay a few days before anyone even notices he's here. That would be much more of an entertaining pay off. 

“Have you got a music room?” Peter asks. “I don’t remember you showing me one earlier.”

“We have a room where the piano lives,” Carl offers, leading Peter and his guitars down the corridor. 

Peter seems pleased enough with it. “Do you play?” he asks, gesturing to the piano.

“From time to time,” Carl says modestly. 

Peter’s eyes light up, and Carl is already braced for it when he says, “Play something for me?”

Carl shifts self-consciously. “You first,” he says shyly. 

Peter has already got out one of his guitars, and he has none of Carl’s reserve. He sits down on the carpet, and Carl sits down facing him, and he starts to play, and sing.

It’s not that the melody is particularly complex, or Peter’s playing unusually skilled, but just like when Peter speaks, the words he sings captivate and intrigue Carl. They’re about romance, and characters, and music itself, and England - two Englands, one idyllic, like Carl has seen in the paintings on the walls of his house forever, and one that sounds more real, more lived in, but that Carl has only ever seen through car windows or on TV. The song Peter plays is a touch melancholy, makes Carl nostalgic for things he's never known, and his chest aches with it.

“That was beautiful,” he says when Peter finishes, and warmth spreads through him when Peter beams. 

“That's the one I'm most proud of,” he murmurs. “But now it's your turn.”

Carl feels a sudden flash of nerves, especially now Peter has performed for him and made such an impression on him. Peter’s an actual musician, an artist, and Carl just dabbles out of boredom and some desire to pretend he’s got something, some talent, that he really hasn’t - he isn’t even as good as he should be, given the hours of piano lessons he endured through his childhood and teens, and he feels embarrassingly inadequate in front of someone who’s actually passionate and dedicated and _for real_ about it. 

But at the same time, he wants to show Peter something of himself, because Peter has done that for him, and Carl wants to show him there is something inside himself really, even if it’s just a kernel, a shoot of something yet to grow. 

He sits at the piano, and plays. He hasn't played in front of anyone in years, and he hasn't played his own composition in front of anyone, ever. He fucks up a bunch of times, and he wonders how much he can blame on his shaking, nervous hands, and how much is just because he’s a bit shit. He wonders how much Peter, the musician, can tell anyway, and maybe he thinks Carl’s little effort just isn’t very good, so it doesn’t really matter if he messes it up. 

His little tune doesn't even have a proper ending, it just trails off, with Carl looking embarrassed. But as soon as he takes his fingers from the keys, Peter rushes to him, sits next to him on the stool, seizes his hands. 

“Did you write that?” he asks, his eyes focussed on Carl's.

Carl wants to look away, shy and uncertain, but he can't. “I suppose,” he admits. 

Before he can hedge or self-deprecate, Peter is kissing him, impulsive and swift. “I thought you couldn't get any more perfect,” he murmurs. “I mean, after last night, and this morning, I thought it could only possibly be downhill from there. But you just get better and better,” he says, and kisses Carl again.

Carl laughs in astonishment. He doesn't know what to say, wondering more than ever if Peter can possibly be real, or whether this is just part of his artistry, a performance. 

“It's not very good,” he says plainly. He doesn't necessarily want Peter to flatter him over this, no matter how nice it feels when he says those lovely things about any other aspect of him. “It's just something I've messed about with, I don't really know what I'm doing.” 

Peter is shaking his head. “No, no, it’s good, _you’re_ good,” he says, kissing Carl’s face again. “I knew you’d be a perfect muse, but you’re even better. I can’t wait to create music with you,” he says, and Carl wonders why he doesn't feel scared, intimidated - the idea should seem daunting, this sudden expectation thrust upon him, but, rather, he feels bolstered and confident, like if Peter thinks he's capable, he must be. 

“I'd like that,” he says, sounding comically shy, and to cover his embarrassment he kisses Peter again. 

“Oh, Carl,” Peter sighs, after some moments of kissing, indulgent and deep. “Do you know what you do to me? Every minute we're together I want to be touching you, I can hardly keep my hands off you.”

“I don't think I want you to,” Carl murmurs, kissing Peter again. Heat is already spreading through him, spurred by the feeling in Peter’s kisses, the intent in his words. “Shall we go upstairs?” he whispers, enjoying the secret thrill sparking in his belly.

Peter draws back from him just far enough that Carl can see him smile, slow and sly, and shake his head. “No, right here,” he says, his smile turning wicked, and Carl shivers with it, immediately turned on. 

It’s not like it’s especially illicit, not after some of the places he’s fucked people, where the risk of publicity or even arrest was a real one, but it still feels just naughty enough, messing around with Peter in this sedate, dignified room, where his ancestors entertained esteemed guests. They’re not even likely to be disturbed, and even if they are it’s unlikely to be by anyone who’ll cause a scene, but the possibility is there, and that sends a little extra excitement through his blood as he kisses Peter harder. 

They don’t have any condoms, and going upstairs to fetch one feels like it would sort of defeat the point, so Carl sits in the wingback Chesterfield by the fireplace and Peter kneels between his thighs and sucks him, soft and slow and sticky. Leaves him floating and boneless like jelly, so incapable that he just watches for several minutes when Peter sits back on the carpet and strokes himself until Carl recovers enough to get down there with him and let Peter use his mouth, thrust into it messily till he comes, spilling onto Carl’s tongue and dribbling down his chin. 

Peter takes Carl’s face in his hands and urges him up so he can kiss him and lick him, just an extra little dirty bonus, and they sprawl on the floor, nearly fully clothed, sharing lingering kisses in between slowing breaths. 

Eventually Carl lifts his face from Peter’s just enough to look at the clock. “It’ll be dinner time soon,” he deadpans, and Peter laughs softly. 

“Do I have to dress for dinner?” he asks, arching an eyebrow, and Carl chuckles.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “But you should probably put your cock away, at least.”

Peter pretends to pout. “I suppose an hour or so won’t hurt,” he sighs.

They tidy themselves up, and Carl washes his face and combs his hair in the nearest bathroom. It occurs to him that he should probably let the kitchen know he has a guest tonight, and may do for the foreseeable future, if everything goes the way Carl hopes.


	7. Chapter 7

He goes down to the kitchen. Dinner is clearly cooking already, and Carl never ceases to feel like a child when he approaches here, even though he’s older than the guy he currently employs to cook for him. It’s probably because Carl just eats the same half-dozen meals over and over again, like a fussy adolescent. The poor guy probably gets bored silly having to cook the same things all the time - which is why Carl chose to employ someone at the start of their career, because having someone experienced, with a wide repertoire, would just be a waste for both of them.

“Smells good,” he says, trying for a friendly smile. The last thing he wants is to be an intimidating presence in a space that isn’t really his. He’s more than grateful for everything the staff do for him, catering to all his whims, and he wants them to feel at ease with him. “I’m afraid I forgot to tell you I have a guest tonight. I hope it isn’t too much of an inconvenience.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s no problem,” Jay says, looking up from his work with a smile. “We noticed you had somebody over.”

Of course they did, probably in a number of ways that cause Carl some mortification. He offers Jay another smile that hopefully looks easier than it feels. “Well, thank you,” he says, and tries to make his exit look as unhurried as he possibly can.

Peter is still in the music room where Carl left him, playing his guitar and periodically writing things down busily in a notebook. He looks up when Carl comes back in, and smiles at him in a way that shouldn’t make Carl’s heart melt as much as it does.

“What’s for dinner then?” he asks.

Carl shrugs. “Smelt like lasagne.” He’s still waiting for Peter to comment on how spoilt Carl must be, looked after and waited on hand and foot, but fortunately Peter seems to continue to find other things more important. He keeps playing and writing when Carl sits down next to him on the floor, and Carl feels a certain serenity settle over him, a sense of fulfilment just watching Peter, being near him as he works, _creates_. He feels distantly envious, that Peter can so easily become absorbed in this, let it flow from him so freely, but, for the first time, he wonders if maybe it could be like that for him, too, if he studies Peter and learns from him and lets himself be inspired by him, synchronise with him. 

The idea makes him smile to himself, filled with a hope he doesn’t quite know what to do with. 

Eventually he watches the clock tick around to 7.30, and he rouses himself, kissing Peter’s cheek to get his attention. 

Peter blinks in owlish surprise, and Carl smiles at him, brimful of affection. 

“Dinner,” he says, and Peter follows him to the dining room.

It occurs to Carl at the last minute that this is it, Peter will be forced to come into contact with at least some of the staff for the first time, and he hopes it doesn’t change anything or make anyone feel awkward. But it seems the only person who might be feeling awkward is himself, because when Billy comes in to serve them Peter gets to his feet, shakes his hand, introduces himself, and Billy reciprocates warmly. Carl is simultaneously relieved and also somehow proud of everyone involved. 

Peter is the model guest, praising the food, complimenting the wine, insisting they call by the kitchen after dinner so he can thank the staff personally for their hospitality. Carl watches fondly, delighted that Peter is so pleased, and that he's making the effort to make the staff feel appreciated - that he's the kind of guy who does appreciate the work they do. Carl feels another swell of affection for Peter, and when they step back into the corridor he gives him a swift kiss, sweet and light on his lips. Peter smiles at him so wonderfully, and Carl's heart skips again, so stupid but so exciting, to have these feelings coursing through him at the slightest provocation. 

They go back to the music room, more wine and whisky too, and Carl can't quell his burgeoning curiosity now, he wants to know more about what makes Peter who he is, how he grew up to be this person who Carl admires more with everything he does. It almost feels wrong to ask, taboo, and he's a little afraid to strip away any of the mystery around Peter, like the magic around him might disappear as well, and this enchantment between them evaporate - but it's like Peter said earlier after Carl had played the piano for him - it could have all been a comedown after yesterday, but Peter at least doesn't seem disappointed yet. He knows something of Carl's life now, and he still seems charmed enough with him, so Carl wants to show that he's interested too, not just self-absorbed or ignorant of how the world appears to others.

He sits on the sofa, and Peter sits on the floor at his feet with his guitar and notebook, and Carl wonders how to ask, without seeming too mundane or, worse, patronising.

He listens to Peter play for a while, watches his face as he tries things, makes notes, works at it, engrossed. It's incredibly endearing, and Carl is happy just to sit and watch him, even though he's not really performing or doing anything worthy of an audience. 

“Where did you come from?” he wonders eventually, when the wine and whisky make it impossible for him to hold the thought in any longer. 

It's a vague, wispy question, he knows, and one that gives Peter a way out in case he really doesn't want to say. Carl half expects him to evade his true intent, tell him a fairy story or give him an enigmatic line that sparkles and dazzles Carl even more, but doesn't give him any more insight into Peter's true reality. So he's a little surprised, pleasantly, when Peter looks up, and meets his eyes with honesty.

“Nowhere good,” he murmurs, then shakes his head, amending. “No, that's not fair. My family are good. Much better than me, probably,” he says with a wry smile, and Carl wonders what that means. He pauses, and for the first time Carl sees some hesitancy in him. “We were an army family,” he says finally. “And even aside from the problems inherent in that - I couldn't bear that kind of structure, the rules, the discipline. The strait jacket. I had to get away from that life.” He smiles, and it's a little wan. “Set out as a vagabond instead,” he adds. “Seeing where it takes me.” He takes Carl's hand, and lifts it to his lips again, presses it to his cheek. “And it brought me to you,” he says, looking up at Carl with bright eyes and a boyish smile. 

Carl doesn't look away, but brings Peter's hand back to his own lips, kisses it, caresses it. “So you know how I feel,” he says, oddly elated. “Growing up feeling trapped, expected to do all these things that make you just want to rebel.” Peter is nodding, and Carl smiles bitterly. “The difference is, you actually did it, stood up for what you cared about.” 

Peter shakes his head now. “It's not that easy though, is it, I know,” he says softly. “It's a bit harder to leave a cage that's gilded, isn't it? There was no one paying attention to what I did. But you've got all that scrutiny, all those eyes on you, duty held over you, threats they can press on you. I wouldn't want to give this up forever, either.”

Carl only feels his cowardice again, ugly and unpleasant inside, and he wants desperately to explain it, so he can have Peter tell him how to overcome it. “If I was anything real, if I had anything worthwhile to offer, I'd do it, wouldn't I? But I just stay here, where it's safe, because it's easier than trying to figure anything else out,” he sighs. “Easier than trying to forge my own path, find something I believe in.”

“It's not just about that, though,” Peter says, suddenly serious. “It's not as simple as just breaking away, making something worthwhile rather than being stifled.” He takes a breath, and Carl doesn't think he's trying to say something about Carl's life this time. He thinks it's the first time he's seen Peter look like a human being, vulnerable and real, rather than a creature forged by alchemy, delivered into Carl's life by magical means.

“I don't want to mislead you,” Peter says, and Carl's heart skips an uneasy beat. “This, _you_ , feel too important for you not to know from the start.” Peter looks away from his eyes, then looks back into them, takes a breath. “Come upstairs with me.”

Carl can see from Peter's face that the suggestion isn't sexual, but his heart is beating faster anyway, with a seed of uncertainty planted and starting to sprout. Is this what Peter wanted him to understand this morning? Some secret, some important secret that Carl needs to know, if they're going to be able to continue this thing that's starting between them? 

As they go up the stairs Carl’s heart beats harder wondering what Peter will tell him. Is he a criminal? Has he had to commit illegal acts in the pursuit of his desires, to keep himself going if his family turned their backs on him? Depending on the level of crime - Carl imagines thefts and frauds, desperate or daring - there's an excitement there that Carl can't deny, despite any implication it might have for having Peter here amongst his family's material wealth. 

It's more sobering when his racing mind wonders if Peter has been - or _is_ \- a sex worker or something, and he has to try hard not to let his thoughts run away from him, keep his feelings neutral until Peter can tell him the truth, or as much of it as he wants. 

In Carl's room, Peter kneels on the bed, and Carl sits, tense, waiting, on its edge. 

“It's not just me wanting to make my way as a musician, living an unconventional, artistic life that my family didn't want for me,” he says, his voice soft, dry. “It's not just me, the way I am, that they disapprove of.” He halts again, his fingers fidgeting, screwing up the bedcovers then letting them go, over and over. “This is more difficult than I expected,” he says, scrubbing his hand over his face and through his hair in agitation. 

Carl keeps still and impassive, though he’s wound so tight inside he hopes he won’t just snap and break before or after he hears what Peter has to say. He wants to reach out, touch Peter, reassure him, but he’s adrift, suddenly and sharply aware that he doesn’t know Peter well enough to know how, or even if, he can be reassured.

Eventually Peter steadies himself, looks Carl in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Carl’s heart drops, still unknowing. Peter is rolling back his shirt sleeves, and Carl sees now, finally, that his arms are scarred and needle-marked, the skin of his fingers discoloured and blackened with grime, and Carl wonders why he didn’t notice before, but he wasn’t looking, because the things Peter was doing with his dirty hands, and mouth, and everything else, felt much too good for Carl to think of anything else. 

“Whatever you’re thinking,” says Peter, “It’s almost certainly true.”

Carl does reach out to Peter now, puts his hand lightly on his forearm, his thumb stroking over a pockmark in his wrist. It feels strange, and Carl wonders if it does for Peter, too, an altered sensation. He knows he has to say something, but he needs to get it in the right order. If nothing else he needs Peter to know he wasn’t wrong to tell him, that Carl appreciates his openness, because everything else, he might need time to process.

He slides his hand down so it’s holding Peter’s. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, not knowing whether it is or not, but just knowing he wants Peter to stay here with him, above all else. He knows he should probably feel a sense of alarm, of shock, and it’s there, distantly, but it’s out of his reach, cut off and dwarfed by the scale of his attraction to and fascination with Peter. If this is part of him, then Carl will just deal with it. Sitting here now, with Peter in front of him, it feels exactly that simple.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter surges forward, takes Carl’s face in his hands, presses fervid kisses to his lips and cheeks. “I knew you’d understand, Carl,” he murmurs. “That’s why I felt like I could tell you, I knew you’d be alright. Everything’s alright,” he says, stroking Carl’s face and hair reassuringly. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”

Carl, against all immediate evidence, knows he isn’t, technically, stupid. He knows Peter’s words are manipulative, designed to bind Carl to him, to make Carl feel good about his own magnanimity, so he won't want to go back on it. But if he knows that, and lets himself give in and feel that way, is that more or less stupid than not realising? Is he being manipulated, if it's into doing what he wants to do anyway?

Carl doesn’t give a fuck. He wants to be with Peter, and so what? Maybe next week or next month or the day after tomorrow things will be different, but that's a matter for then. Things can change drastically in the time it takes for someone to sit beside you, and take your hand, and kiss it. Carl's ready, too ready, and willing to go with it, go with Peter, because if he lets him go without him, he knows he'll never met anyone like him ever again.

“Are you OK?” he asks softly, because he wants to say something, and he can't think of anything better. 

Peter pulls away from him, nodding distractedly. “I need to…” he says, his eyes darting around, glancing at Carl's face and then away, and suddenly it feels much more real to Carl.

He gets up. “I'll go and get a drink,” he murmurs. It's what he needs. He closes the door behind him carefully when he leaves, tries to ignore the heavy beat of his heart as he goes back downstairs and pours himself more whisky. He doesn't want to sit in the music room now, doesn't want to think about this in that place, in that same special atmosphere where he'd felt so content being with Peter, their own world materialising around them, cocooning them, almost without their notice. 

He steps out onto the terrace, pacing and smoking, and thinks.

He'll take care of Peter, of course he will, as much as and for as long as he can. It's a responsibility, and Carl hasn't ever had many of those, but he'll take this one willingly. It occurs to him that perhaps Peter will ask him for money, if not immediately, then at some point, and Carl is afraid he'll give it, to keep Peter with him, and he's afraid Peter will stay only for the money Carl can supply. It's a cold, hollow thought, and Carl tries to chase it away. He's getting ahead of himself, imagining paranoid scenarios like insurance again, as if it'll help him be prepared if they happen.

But whether or not that were to happen - having Peter around was always going to set the cat among the family pigeons, and now even more so. The thought gives him a wry smile. The family have never made any secret of their distaste for Carl's own use of illicit substances, but Carl knows for certain that it's only because he makes less effort to hide it than most people in a similar position. He prefers trendy parties and paparazzi-filled events to the traditional occasions behind the closed doors of someone's country house, but he's under no illusion that similar things don't go on - they're just kept much more discreet. And even if the substances differ, how is it different to pissing money away on ten thousand pound bottles of champagne or whisky? Carl's always thought himself surrounded by hypocrites, and at least Peter has been honest with him.

That feels good, that Peter has trusted him, not tried to hide it or lie about it. He’s exposed himself to Carl, made himself vulnerable, told him something he must’ve known might frighten Carl away. But Peter trusted him to be able to handle it without disgust or panic, and Carl feels like he’s passed another test. At the moment he doesn’t think he could fail any such test Peter set for him, so eager is he to just be with him. If anything, he feels closer to Peter now, taken into his confidence. He _does_ understand.

It’s still a worry, certainly. Carl knows, in his mind, that it’s not an easy thing to deal with, for anyone. But don’t people - including Carl himself - keep getting on his case for always taking the easy path, just messing around? This is the only challenge he’s ever willingly embraced in his life - everyone should be glad he’s finally taking something seriously, he thinks, with another dark smile to himself.

Carl has questions, of course he does. But he’s not sure he dares ask, and he doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answers anyway. He just wants to go back to Peter, and carry on where they left off.

He stubs out his cigarette, and drains his glass, and goes back inside and up the stairs. When he gets back to his room Peter is lying on his side on the bed, facing the door but with eyes closed, and Carl doesn’t like the way his heart jumps, strangled, into his throat for the second before he registers the slow rise and fall of Peter’s ribs as he breathes. He should get used to it, he thinks, shouldn’t be so dramatic.

To calm himself, he goes to the bathroom, goes through his evening routine, gets ready for bed, though it’s too early to sleep and he knows he wouldn’t be able to anyway. Carl considers himself fairly worldly - despite his cushioned journey through life, he’s seen and done plenty that would scandalise the type of people he’s considered one of by dint of breeding - but this is something new and unknown. He’ll learn. Just take it a step at a time.

He puts on some music, quietly, and turns out the lights, gets on top of the bed next to Peter’s clothed body and pulls the bedspread up over them both. He holds himself still and tense, still listening to Peter’s breaths, not knowing whether he should touch or leave him be, like disturbing a sleepwalker. Eventually he turns onto his side behind Peter, keeping a little distance, and reaches out, just to rest his hand on Peter’s side and feel his warmth.

He lies awake for a long time before his eyes close.

When he wakes up, it’s to the same warm hands and lips on him as yesterday, and even though everything he learnt last night quickly comes back to him, it’s easy to not think about it when Peter is kissing him like that, and touching him like that, and rubbing up against him so needily like that. It’s like a switch flicked inside him, immediately on, and nothing else is worthy of even the smallest amount of his attention when Peter is naked in his arms and licking into his mouth with an eager tongue. Peter’s body is solid and warm against him, he’s still real, still the same, still responding with the same keen little sounds against Carl’s lips as they kiss, still shivering against him as his cock slides against Carl’s. Carl had gone to sleep in shorts, but he divests himself of those as quickly as he can, to feel all of Peter against him, skin hot and getting hotter.

Peter kisses at Carl’s jaw, his throat and neck, starting to move down his body, but Carl stops him, urges him back up so they’re face to face again. Peter looks at him in some consternation at Carl’s apparent refusal of a certain blowjob, and Carl belatedly hopes he hasn’t caused offence, slighted Peter’s skills.

“Want you up here with me,” he murmurs, and Peter seems pleased with that explanation, smiling as he kisses Carl again. “Let’s just stay here all day,” Carl says impulsively. He suddenly thinks it’s the best idea he’s ever had. Just stay in bed, wrapped up in each other, forget every notion and pressure of the world outside. “Get to know each other better, like you said,” he adds, his hands caressing Peter's back, wanting to steer things in a playful direction. He thinks Peter will get it. “Find out what each other likes,” he clarifies with a little smirk, not letting his lips leave Peter’s for even a moment.

“Oh, alright,” agrees Peter, smirking right back at him, a note of eager intrigue in his voice. “So what do you like, Carl?”

Even hearing his name from Peter's lips sends a frisson through Carl, something fitting into an intimate little space somewhere inside him. “Well, I like anything, if I like the person doing it to me,” he murmurs. “Anything within reason,” he adds after a beat, just in case Peter is still bought into any weirdo kinky aristo Sunday Sport stories, and Peter chuckles softly.

“I see,” Peter says, and he shifts against Carl so he can slide his hand down and wrap it around his cock, giving it a slow, tantalising stroke. “Do you like this?” he asks, his lips hovering over Carl's again, and Carl doesn't really think an answer is necessary, but he'll give it if it means Peter will carry on.

“Yes,” he sighs, arching into Peter's hand, sure and steady and oh, just the right touch and pressure, as if Peter has done this to him a hundred times before.

Peter kisses him the same way, savouring it, thorough and breathtaking, and Carl is already so caught up in it, the feeling of Peter's hand working him up so perfectly, taking his time, letting him enjoy every stroke.

“Aren't you going to ask me what I like?” Peter prompts presently.

Carl wants to say that it's Peter's fault, that his exquisite touch has temporarily robbed Carl of his manners, but he just gives a breathless laugh, and asks. “What do you like, Peter?”

Peter moves his lips from Carl's, and Carl misses them immediately, but then they're right by his ear, and the feeling of him so close beside him, warm and still entirely focussed on Carl and giving him pleasure, is more intimate than Carl can give words to.

“I like you, Carl, and I like your cock, and I want to tell you exactly what I'd like you to do with it. Is that alright, Carl?” It’s like his words are hooked directly into Carl’s brain. Like something from his own imagination, a fantasy he’d conjure for himself.

Carl bites his lip, nods shakily against the pillow, already so hard in Peter's hand just listening to this preamble. If this is just the build up, whatever Peter says next might finish him off before he even has a chance to carry it out.

“I like to be fucked really fucking slowly, Carl,” he says, his voice dark and rich in Carl's ear, and Carl can only draw a shuddering breath, he's so deeply and immediately turned on. “Use your fingers for a while first, get me nice and ready for you. Tease me as much as you like, till I'm desperate to have your cock inside me. Begging you for it. Then do it, all the way in, as deep as you can get, let me feel every inch of you. I know you know how to do it right. Just draw it out, every move, so slow, make it last. Gradually wind me up till I’m ready to come - but don’t make me, don’t let me - stop and start all over again, do it as many times as you want, till you can’t wait any longer. It feels so good, Carl, it’ll feel so good with you. Does it sound good, Carl? Will you do that?”

“Yes,” Carl moans, hips lifting helplessly up into Peter’s hand. He doesn’t know if he’s ever done that in his life, taken it so slow, made it last - he’s much more used to the thrill of getting off quickly, as fast as he can in a place where he shouldn’t be, spurred on by the prospect of discovery. And the sort of guys he’s usually with are much younger than himself and - he assumes - Peter as well, less practiced in self-control and more intent on pursuing immediate gratification. But the way Peter described it, so intense and specific, like he knows exactly what he wants, was so headspinningly arousing that Carl wants it just as much as Peter does, wants that sustained closeness and intimacy and wants to make Peter feel that good for as long as he possibly can. “But I can’t do it now,” he pants, still thrusting into Peter’s wonderful, delectable grip. “I’m too turned on already,” he confesses, feeling rather immature, but he thinks maybe Peter won’t mind knowing how strong an effect he has on him, with just his hand and his words. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks, that Peter, so good at saying such bewitching, irresistible things when they've got their clothes on, is so good at talking this way in bed too, so good at using his words to excite Carl, to so easily make him feel like he's burning up inside from desire for Peter.

“I can tell,” Peter murmurs, and Carl thinks he was right, Peter sounds rather smug that Carl is so fucking hard just from a handjob and some filthy, shameless words in his ear. “Another time then,” he suggests, and his hand speeds up, and his teeth nip the lobe of Carl’s ear, and Carl groans and shudders, handing himself completely over to Peter’s control. If this is alright for Peter, it’s more than alright for Carl, and he just lets Peter stroke him, melting with pleasure, head thrown back on the pillow as Peter kisses open-mouthed at his throat.

“I like this,” murmurs Peter, and he sounds out of breath as well. “I like that I can see you, like that I can see how good I’m making you feel. You’re so beautiful.”

Carl fumbles for him, clumsy with lust, turns his head so they can kiss again, messy and wet and urgent, and Carl can feel his orgasm building, tightening inside, as Peter strokes his cock, smooth and tight and fast now, and he takes a gasping breath, his whole body jerking against Peter as he spills over his own stomach.

Peter’s grasp loosens, easing Carl down with a few soft strokes, and all he can do is lie there, slack and useless with release, until he eventually realises Peter is moving against him, rutting against Carl’s belly where it’s slick like he can’t wait for Carl to pull himself together, he just needs to come. Carl moves his head so they can at least kiss some more, does his best to respond to Peter’s still-ardent passion with his own, pulls Peter harder against him with both hands. He slides his palms over Peter’s arse, lets a finger drift down and between his cheeks to touch the sensitive skin there, not even penetrating, just stroking gently, and Peter gasps and quivers, moving more quickly and erratically against him, and Carl is almost surprised how soon he feels a fresh rush of warmth between them, Peter’s skin sliding slickly against his own as he slows, panting and shaking and eventually sprawling, spent, on top of Carl’s body.

Carl brings his arms up to enfold him, a satisfied smile creeping over his face. Peter, after some time, raises his head and grins down at him, and Carl feels that flutter that he’s almost becoming accustomed to, the feeling in his chest that lasts just a moment but feels just as good and even more fulfilling than all the sex they’ve had.

“You liked that?” Peter asks, still grinning, and Carl rather suspects he’s being rhetorical, rather than seeking reassurance.

“I think we can safely assume I did,” he murmurs. “Like I said, I’m pretty sure I’ll like anything you could do. Because I like you,” he adds impulsively. He’s glad he’s not prone to blushing, because as soon as he says it, he feels like a character in a Richard Curtis film. But it’s true, and he wants to make it clear, in light of last night, and in appreciation of Peter’s honesty to him. If Peter can confide in him something like that, then the least Carl can do is assure him, plainly and clearly, that his feelings haven’t changed. Oddly, he feels even more secure now in Peter’s affections, as if nothing he says now can be too much or too strong. If Carl had doubts this time yesterday about whether he might scare Peter away, or be too presumptive, those are gone entirely. It’s quite liberating.

Peter beams down at him, leaning in and giving him the softest, sweetest kiss. “I like you too,” he whispers, and settles back down against Carl’s chest contentedly. “In fact,” he goes on, his voice a soft warmth flowing over Carl’s skin. “Don’t be afraid, but I think I’m going to fall in love with you.”

Carl wonders what it is that Peter thinks he might be afraid of. Is it that someone like Peter might fall in love with him? Or is it that anyone could waltz into his life and make such a grand declaration, after they've known each other for mere days? But Carl is in a dreamlike world now, where time doesn't feel like it has very much significance at all, and he isn’t afraid. His heart is racing, but it isn’t through fear. He knows, somewhere in his mind, that maybe it should be, but, like every note of caution or refutation his brain has tried to suggest to him regarding Peter, it’s just an empty thought, without weight or substance. It makes him feel nothing, certainly not compared with the tumbling cascade of feelings Peter has, almost without effort, loosed inside him. The prospect of Peter, this incredible, indescribable, bewitching person, _loving_ him isn't frightening - it's thrilling and wonderful and something he knows he should seize and treasure, because the love of someone like him will be a love like no other.

He thinks maybe, more than likely, probably, he will fall in love with Peter too. He wonders what it will feel like. He wants to find out.

“I’m not afraid,” he whispers, just in case Peter was in any doubt. Carl doesn’t think Peter has doubts, though, about anything at all.


	9. Chapter 9

He must fall asleep, because the next thing he’s aware of is the sound of a guitar. He feels a rush of happy warmth in his chest, the comfort and cosiness of Peter there in the room with him, playing softly while Carl slept, enjoying himself with the music. 

He half opens his eyes, lying there still and comfortable, just listening for a while. Peter is sitting on a chair facing the bed, wearing a paisley dressing gown and nothing else, and Carl can't help but smile, his heart swelling with affection. Eventually he sits up so he can watch Peter as he continues to play, seemingly without noticing Carl’s attention yet. There’s a teapot and cup next to him on a tray on the floor, and somehow that warms Carl’s heart even further, that Peter has just settled in so comfortably, like he belongs here.

“Made yourself at home then?” Carl teases, when Peter pauses in his playing to take a drink of his tea. 

Peter smiles, and raises the cup towards Carl, like a toast. “Your lads in the kitchen were very obliging,” he says. “And as some people seemed determined to sleep all morning…” he adds, giving Carl a cheeky grin.

Carl looks at the time. “It’s only ten o’clock,” he points out, though he stops short of pointing out that this is by no means a late hour to wake, for him. 

It doesn’t seem to matter to Peter, anyway, because he gets up and comes back to the bed, shedding the dressing gown onto the floor before climbing back under the covers with Carl and starting to kiss him again, warm lips on his neck and shoulder and an arm across his stomach, keeping him where Peter wants him.

“I thought I might have a shower,” Carl murmurs, aware of the residue of their first round earlier. “If you wanted to join me,” he says, his hands coming up to explore the soft flesh of Peter’s body keenly. 

“Why,” says Peter, kisses punctuating his words, “Would you want to wash, now, when I have every intention of getting you dirty again just as soon as you’re clean?” 

Carl shivers with delighted arousal, no thoughts of argument in his easily-persuaded mind. “Well, when you put it like that,” he murmurs.

Peter chuckles against his lips. “You gonna let me suck your dick this time?” he murmurs. “Because I really want to.”

“Oh, yes,” Carl says, with a breathless laugh. “Do it.” He shivers under him, he can’t help it. The things Peter says, the bold way he says them, they’re enough to get him hard in no time, and he can’t get enough of being wanted like this, like Peter can’t wait to touch him and please him. That Peter seems to get off on doing it, too, turns Carl on more than anything.

“Oh good,” Peter says, and the way he licks his lips as he starts to move down Carl’s body sends a wave of heat rushing through him, down into his belly and between his legs as Peter settles himself there. He looks up at Carl with those captivating brown eyes, and Carl can’t look away, can only watch, trembling, as Peter puts out his tongue and touches it to the tip of his cock, lapping at it with the flat of his tongue, slow and soft, before he draws it into his full, wet mouth. 

Carl sighs with the exquisite pleasure of it, lets himself sink into it, drown in it, lets it roll over him in warm, shuddering waves. Peter’s tongue is so delicate, and his lips are so soft, and when Carl looks down to see his cock sliding between them, into that plush, velvet mouth, it's almost too much. Peter is looking down now, focussing on what he's doing to Carl, and his eyelashes flutter, soft and demure against his pale skin. Carl feels a surge of unstoppable emotion and sensation, bursting in his chest hot like electricity, shooting up his spine and making his head rush. He puts his hand in Peter’s hair just to be touching him, can’t stop himself pushing deeper into Peter’s mouth, just wanting more of this selfish, spiralling pleasure, greedily taking everything Peter wants to give. Peter sucks him indulgently, with lingering, languorous movements, like he’s enjoying it as much as Carl is, slides his hand between Carl’s legs to caress and cradle him in one big, hot hand, and Carl is trembling, fragile and full to the brim already, wondering if anything has ever felt this good. 

He makes a pathetic little whine when Peter unexpectedly draws his mouth away, but Peter smiles up at him with wicked intent, nuzzling Carl’s shaking thigh with his cheek before he turns his head and kisses the skin with those soft lips, so slick and warm and full from sucking Carl’s dick. He keeps kissing, inside both of Carl’s thighs, over and over, petal soft touches on Carl’s oversensitive skin, and Carl’s head is spinning, maybe there’s something wrong with him, because it’s such a simple, gentle touch, and Carl is being sent mad with it, his whole body flooded with pleasure and sensation as surely as if Peter’s lips, and hands too, were touching him all over. 

Peter replaces his lips with his tongue, and Carl gasps at the new feeling, a fresh wave of arousal. Peter traces the crease of his thigh with his tongue and Carl shivers, holding his breath, anticipating. Peter pushes his thighs up, parts them a little more, and then his tongue is right there, _there_ where Carl was waiting for it, hoping for it, and he can't help crying out, throwing his head back on the pillow, because it feels so fucking lovely he almost can't bear it. Peter licks so gently, so softly, just dabbing inside him, and Carl bites helplessly down on his own fist, completely lost in everything Peter is making him feel. Every bone and sinew in him is turned to liquid, melted like butter by Peter's clever, filthy mouth, and the only solid part of him that's left is his cock, so hard he feels he might burst, so sensitive he thinks he'd come at a single stroke, a single touch, a single breath. 

He's sure he can't possibly feel any more, he's about to overflow as it is, if only Peter would touch his dick, but he doesn't, and then Carl feels his finger touch, there where it's wet from his tongue, pressing gently into him with such wonderful care, and he almost sobs, it's just so much at once. Peter strokes him inside, just one long finger reaching that spot inside him, rubbing it until Carl wonders if he must have died, because nothing earthly has ever felt like this, but he isn't sure heaven would allow it either, and Carl doesn't think he'd deserve to be there even if it did. All he can do is let himself feel it, aching and quivering and desperate, whimpering and crying out with every touch, until eventually Peter puts his soft, warm mouth back over the head of Carl’s dick and strokes it with his wicked, knowing tongue, and that’s it, that’s everything Carl needs, one exquisite moment, crystal clear, and he’s coming and coming, spilling himself into Peter’s mouth. 

Peter swallows greedily around him, eventually letting Carl slip from between his lips, and crawls up his body to kiss his mouth with slick, sticky kisses that make Carl shiver all over again. Peter is still hard, his dick rod-stiff and pressed against Carl's hip, and as soon as Carl has recovered himself enough to move, he rolls Peter off him and onto his back, kissing swiftly down his throat and chest and stomach until he reaches his eager cock. 

He takes it in his hand first, looking up so he can see Peter's face, and the need, the lust he sees there sends a satisfied thrill through him, and he can't help but smile, just a little, as he parts his lips and slides Peter's dick inside his mouth. 

Peter cries out immediately, his hands moving to grasp Carl's hair, keep him right there, as if Carl had any intention of stopping now. Carl doesn't tease or play around, not now, when he can see how badly Peter needs to come, just tries to please him. It's been a long time since Carl has done this, sucked anyone's cock, for the enjoyment of it, not just because he feels obliged to repay the favour of having it done to him. He sucks Peter eagerly, wants to learn what he likes best, wants to make him feel as much and as intense pleasure as Peter gave to him. He explores him with his tongue, delighted by the way he can make Peter whimper and moan, and then swear when Carl takes him deeper into his mouth. Peter thrusts up into his mouth, shallow at first, testing, but Carl lets him, and he soon moves faster, more urgently, getting closer.

“Oh, Carl, I'm gonna come,” he says in a breathless rush, and he does, warm and deep in Carl's eager mouth. 

Carl swallows automatically, not accustomed to doing that either, but he's so caught up in Peter, wants to feel so close to him, that it feels right, it feels good. He crawls back up Peter's body and lies beside him and puts his arms around him, just wants to enjoy the intimacy of the moment together, revel in it, luxuriate in it. He kisses Peter's brow softly, then his lips, and Peter is so warm and pliant and soft that Carl never wants to let him go. 

“That was so good,” sighs Peter. 

“And almost no mess at all,” deadpans Carl, mostly to deflect from how smug he feels at the compliment.

Peter chuckles. “If you still want that shower, you're on your own,” he says. “I don't think I can move.”

“I don't want to either,” admits Carl. He snuggles further down in the bed, still holding Peter close. He feels like he wouldn't want to move from this perfect place even without the wonderful lassitude that's settled over him. Doesn't want to be parted from Peter for any unnecessary moment, because he knows not one minute of this bliss can be taken for granted.


End file.
